Shining City

by Seth Greenland

  The science fair filled every inch of the commodious school gymnasium. Student projects were set up in row after row and children and parents perused them with a gravity befitting Nobel Prize judges. Jan was curious if anyone would speak with her as she worked her way along the rows, looking at the children’s handiwork. She had been there for fifteen minutes before anyone said hello. An experiment a sixth-grade girl had done about the removal of hair dye had caught her eye, and when she glanced up from the handwritten explanation of the assignment she saw Corinne Vandeveer. Jan smiled at Corinne, who behaved as if she didn’t see her, turning away and whispering something to her companion, a fellow Turbo Mom. Jan approached them.

  “Hi, Corinne.” Corinne smiled tightly, barely offering a greeting. She did not introduce her companion, whose shiny tan, glossy hair, and sparkling diamond earrings combined to create a force field around her head. The woman tried to pretend that Jan was not there. “When’s the decoration committee going to meet?”

  “It’s not.”

  “What happened?” Jan knew exactly what had happened—Corinne had heard about Marcus, and had decided to shun her—but now she just wanted to make her former friend uncomfortable. “I was looking forward to it.”

  “It’s all been taken care of,” she said. “Nice seeing you.” Corinne and her friend glided away, leaving Jan standing by a project where a seventh-grader had announced his work by creating a board that read DO COMPUTER GAMES MAKE YOU STUPID? The students and their parents swirled around Jan snaking their way through the displays, their voices a dull hum pushing against her consciousness. She felt her internal mercury rise. Her mouth was dry. Jan whirled this way and that, saw the pampered faces, carefree, laughing, the golden few for whom the sun shines, the winds blow, and the clouds part. Who could say that what any of them did to access these halls of privilege was more defensible? She had to concentrate to keep from running out of the gym. Slowly, stately, she walked toward the door. She found a water fountain in the hallway and took a drink. Then she stepped outside to get some air. Jan was distraught at the rank unfairness of her erstwhile friend’s behavior. Corinne’s husband Dewey Vandeveer, blue-jeaned arbitrage potentate, earned his money in high-level financial manipulation, world economies rising and falling as he and his associates, respectable highwaymen, backed their truck up to the vault and looted its sparkling treasure. But Marcus and Jan were immoral and to be shunned?

  After five minutes, she was able to go back into the gym and tell Nathan it was time to leave. He and five of his friends were trading verses from a rap song. There was a moment of protest, but when he saw the way his mother was looking at him, unblinking and serious, he followed her out.

  That evening, Marcus tried to focus his mind by reading Aristotle, but the Nichomachean Ethics were no match for his imploding sense of stability and order. Everything had spun out of control. He felt as if his very cells were ululating. When he heard Jan’s car pull into the driveway, he opened the front door and was waiting there when they arrived.

  “How’d it go?”

  Nathan walked past Marcus and into the house. Marcus and Jan followed his progress up the stairs.

  “Nathan, your father asked you a question.”

  Marcus watched the boy’s retreating form on the stairwell and pondered whether he should order him back down.

  “Fine,” he said before disappearing into his room.

  Marcus looked at Jan, then in the direction Nathan had gone. He was trying to decide whether to follow the boy up the stairs and into his room.

  “Corinne Vandeveer completely chilled me.”

  “What?” Marcus said. He was concentrating on their son, and how to address what was beginning to look like a difficult juncture in their relationship. He didn’t expect Jan to introduce a new issue.

  “She obviously heard about you and…”

  “I don’t care about Corinne Vandeveer, okay?”

  There was no answer the first time Marcus knocked, or the second. When he opened the door, Nathan was seated at his desk with headphones on. Marcus touched him on the back. Nathan glanced at him but didn’t say anything.

  “I know this is hard for you.” Marcus wished he could think of something less lame to say, but he hadn’t planned a speech. He could tell Nathan was not in the mood to hear one either. And what could he tell the boy? I did it because of my grandfather? My brother? My faulty judgment? A hypocritical world? A toxic culture? A need to not be crushed, to stake out a place, to make a living? It all sounded absurd and at this moment, as Marcus stood with his hand resting on his son’s shoulder, none of it mattered.

  “Nate, I love you. That’s what’s important.”

  “My friends think you’re totally gangsta.”

  “Really?”

  Marcus saw that Nathan was trying to parse this development. The boy couldn’t entirely make sense of it. He didn’t want to bear down on his son, make him any more uncomfortable than he already was, so he took a moment and tried to relax. It was important he not rush. Marcus looked around the room. Clothes were strewn everywhere, books and papers scattered on the desk, several manga comics lying on the floor near Nathan’s open clarinet case. The clarinet itself was on the bed. Marcus picked it up and placed his fingers on the holes, miming playing it in an attempt to lighten the mood. It didn’t work. After an interval of silence, Nathan said “Prostitution is a crime.”

  “First of all, not all laws make sense. I helped some adults, who were consenting, by the way … which means all parties agreed…”

  “I know what consenting means, Dad.”

  “So I helped consenting adults have sex, okay?” Marcus placed the clarinet back on the bed while he decided just how far to take this exchange. “It’s only sex. It’s a physical thing, muscles and nerves interacting, and people like it. Many, many people. But because we live in a society with these particular values …” This was the tricky part for Marcus, since Nathan had just embraced those values in the most public of ways, and with his father’s alleged endorsement. He wasn’t exactly sure how to explain religious dogma, insofar as it related to the development of a personal code of ethics to a thirteen-year-old.

  “Whatever.”

  But now he had no choice: “Some of those values are good. Okay, a lot of them. But when it comes to sex…”

  “They’re not?”

  “In a perfect world, Nate, you should have sex with someone you love. But, one, it’s not a perfect world, and two, there are people who don’t love anyone, or can’t love anyone, or don’t have anyone to love and they still want to have sex. They’re lonely. Do you understand?”

  “Sure.” He did not sound convinced.

  “People have urges and sometimes they become unbearable. There are other people whose profession it is to provide a safety valve. It’s been going on since the dawn of time.”

  “Pimps and hoes?”

  “Yes. At least the hoes … the women … the ladies … Don’t call them hoes. It’s disrespectful. Look, there are marriages where an ugly rich guy marries a much younger woman, one who’s beautiful and in her sexual prime. Some of your classmates at Winthrop Hall, their parents fit into this category. And maybe the wife doesn’t really love the husband, but he’s rich and she gets to drive a fancy car and live in a big house, and her part of the bargain is she has to have sex with him. So how is that different?”

  “Because they’re married?”

  “Yeah. That makes it okay in the eyes of society, but it’s the same principle.”

  “So Dylan Sussman’s mother is a ho?” Nathan said, referring to the alluring mother of a classmate several decades younger than her septuagenarian husband.

  “I don’t know the woman personally, but listen: Society is accusing me of being a criminal. Now you have a set of moral values, and they’re good ones. But here’s what morals boil down to for me— treat other people the way you want them to treat you, okay? Everything else is trying to figure out how many angels can pra
nce around on a quark.”

  “What?”

  “It’s unknowable, Nate. Treat people well, love your family…”

  “Do you treat people well?”

  “All the time? No. Do I try? Mostly. I didn’t say it was easy. Look, I know this is a lot for a thirteen-year-old to deal with, but when you’re sitting alone …” Marcus looked at Nathan, who was staring away again. “Nate, would you look at me, please?” Nathan acted like he didn’t hear. “The Dodgers are in town. Do you want to go to a game?”

  “I don’t like baseball.”

  “You played Little League last year.”

  “It’s boring.”

  “Okay. Maybe you’ll change your mind.”

  Nathan nodded, his face idling in neutral. He still wasn’t making eye contact. Then Marcus kissed his warm forehead and retreated. As he sat alone in the living room later that night, The Last Days of Socrates unread on his lap, he reflected on what he might have done had his father been in a similar situation. He concluded that his own reaction would probably not have differed much from Nathan’s and, so, under the circumstances, decided to consider himself lucky.

  Chapter 22

  Atlas had wanted to play golf, but Marcus couldn’t deal with the idea and suggested having a drink instead. Now they were seated across from each other in a booth in the Paradise Room drinking whiskey. It was just before the dinner rush, and the place was quiet. Techno pop from the eighties played incongruously over the speakers in the red-hued bar. The first thing Atlas wanted to know was why Marcus hadn’t told him about the business he was running. When Marcus just raised an eyebrow and ruefully shook his head, Atlas didn’t pursue that line of questioning. He agreed he probably would have kept quiet about it too. Marcus was trying to figure out a way to tell him about Plum, but didn’t know how to bring it up. They’d been sitting there fifteen minutes when Atlas placed a beer nut in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and said “I want to be your lawyer.”

  This was a surprise to Marcus, something he hadn’t considered. He had already started looking for an appropriately high-priced attorney to fend off the charges and keep him out of prison. Atlas then told him he’d even do it pro bono. Marcus was momentarily knocked off-kilter by the proposal.

  “I may be a fuckup in my personal life, but I know how to work a jury. What I did for Cricket Bulger, I can do for you,” Atlas said. “I completely messed up with the gambling. No excuses. My fault alone. But I’m clean over six months now. No casinos, no Internet poker, nothing. I’m going to meetings three days a week.” Marcus was still trying to figure out a way to introduce the topic of his ex-wife, but Atlas was on a roll. “Your case is going to get some serious publicity. It’s a huge incentive for me. It’ll be a great comeback story, and I’ll keep you out of jail.” He paused here and looked into Marcus’s eyes. “I need this, and I’ll come through for you. I already know how we’re going to defend it.”

  “Oh, yeah? How?”

  “I’m gonna make you a folk hero.”

  “Plum was working for me.”

  Marcus watched Atlas, awaiting a reaction. He was not pleased with the clumsy way he had imparted the information. The music pulsed insistently through the warm fug of the bar.

  “What’d you say?” Atlas wasn’t sure if he’d heard Marcus correctly. “Plum, what…?”

  “She was working for me.”

  “Doing … what was she … what?”

  “As a dominatrix. She worked for the service.”

  The angle of Atlas’s head shifted, and he was now looking at Marcus from the corners of his eyes. “Are you fucking … what?”

  There was a long silence filled with the sound of tinny synthesizers and a singer whose voice was entirely devoid of emotion. “Oh, man …” Atlas said. The magnified bearing of a moment ago was gone and he seemed to visibly deflate. Then, without a word, he picked up his glass, walked to the bar, and reordered. Marcus didn’t know what was going to come next. Although their marriage was unsustainable, she had been his wife, and Marcus had been at least partially responsible for her new life. Perhaps this news would awaken some submerged chivalrous impulse, causing Atlas to break his glass and grind the jagged edge into Marcus’s face. Perhaps the newfound self-control was an act and he would leap across the table, wring Marcus’s neck, and leave him dead on the sticky floor of the Paradise Room. Either way, Marcus believed he had to tell his friend.

  Atlas was staring at his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. The bartender, a young guy with the kind of mustache favored by country rock musicians in the seventies, poured another whiskey and slid it to Atlas who immediately took a swig. Then another. Marcus continued to watch as he drained the drink then placed it on the bar and tapped the rim. The mustache gave him a refill. Atlas placed a twenty on the bar and picked up the drink. He slid back into the booth.

  “A dominatrix?”

  “She’s a good earner.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “I wish. But she wanted to do it, and…”

  “She finally found something she was suited for.”

  Marcus was not certain how to read this remark. Was it bitter? Sympathetic? Supportive? Or was it flip; brittle words masking a grievous wound? He felt the need to cushion the blow, stanch the bleeding. Take responsibility. “Atlas, listen, I can…”

  But before Marcus could launch into his mea culpa, Atlas held up his hand, indicating no further words were necessary. “It’s not relevant,” he said.

  “You forgive me?”

  “First of all, there’s nothing to forgive. The woman’s entitled to make a living, and if she’s paying the rent horsewhipping some guy’s naked ass, who am I to say you can’t do that in America?”

  “I’m glad you’ve got an open mind.”

  “That’s what we want in a jury. Trials are like books and movies. They have narratives that the jurors hook into.” A year earlier, Marcus would have been surprised at how quickly Atlas had assimilated this new intelligence and moved on, but now he understood survival techniques on a deeper level. “You’re gonna be a world-class defendant. Your job moves to China, you’ve got a young son, a mother-in-law with health problems, and all you want to do is take care of your family. This is a redemption story, man. Life deals you a bad hand and you make the best of it. I’m not going to let the government take you down.” Marcus considered this. Certainly, Atlas was motivated. And he was as close to a friend as Marcus possessed, which had to count for something. He liked that not even the tiniest part of Atlas seemed to judge him. They drank a toast. Atlas predicted: “You’re going to be a free man.”

  When Marcus drove home, he wondered if he had acceded to his friend’s entreaties too quickly. He could afford anyone, perhaps he should go on a legal shopping expedition. But that thought was quickly crowded out once more by the mystery of who had unmasked him. Marcus had spent hours trying to unravel this, and as he was pulling into his driveway, it suddenly struck him. Malvina had told him he should have gone to China. As far as he knew, the only people they had in common were women who worked in the business. Marcus had only mentioned it to one person. He was flabbergasted, but not surprised.

  No one was home when Marcus returned. As he sorted through the mail, he noticed a package from Dominc Festa, Esq. It was a brown box, eight inches by eight inches, made from corrugated cardboard and wrapped with packing tape. He got a knife from a drawer in the kitchen and sliced it open. There was a note from Festa on top, handwritten, in looping cursive, on a piece of office stationery. It said:

  Dear Marcus,

  Sorry to hear what you’re going through. This has been sitting in a

  drawer in my desk and I’ve been meaning to send it to you. When I

  saw you on TV last night, I realized now was the time. Good luck!

  Sincerely, Dominic Festa.

  Placing his hand in the box, Marcus removed a small, robin’s-egg-blue ceramic urn that contained the ashes of his brother Julian. What
, exactly, was he supposed to do with this? The urn was cool to his touch and surprisingly light. Marcus had never held an urn containing human remains before. He would have to scatter them or bury them or do whatever it was you did with ashes, but this was not something he could think about now. In the meantime, where to put them? Not in the kitchen, or the bedroom, certainly. He couldn’t put the ashes in the living room where the urn would conjure Julian’s malevolent presence whenever Marcus found himself in there. What about the hall closet? Or did that show lack of respect for the dead? He left them on a shelf in the garage office, next to a yellowed copy of Being and Nothingness, and tried to forget their existence.

  That night Marcus got an e-mail from Atlas informing him the government had only one witness in the case—a former Smart Tart.

  Kostya called the next day and suggested that they meet at Pink’s that afternoon. He was eating a chili dog when Marcus arrived, watching the traffic with the eyes of a big-cat trainer. They shook hands, and Marcus bought himself a soda. Kostya indicated that they should walk. The two of them headed north past a store selling overpriced antique furniture.

  “I know guy, Chechen, came to Hollywood to be stuntman, his shit ain’t working out, yo …” Kostya looked Marcus directly in the eye. Marcus didn’t say anything. “Five thousand dollars, twenty-five hundred up front, the rest when it’s done. You want bitch not talk?” Marcus was shocked. Then he wasn’t shocked at all. Did Marcus still think he was a toy maker? The right to be appalled at Kostya’s offer had been forfeited. Just add water, stir, and the case would go away. That kind of person wound up dead every day. It would be hard to prove a connection. He’d made his bundle, the business was already over. It was tempting. This was his world now. It wasn’t as if his prints weren’t already on a murder weapon. And when was that bell going to ring? “It’s fucked up, yo … you do 401(ks) and all.”